


Special Tactical

by bellygunnr



Series: Free Men Plural [4]
Category: Half-Life, Half-Life VR but the AI is Self-Aware - Fandom
Genre: Gun Kink, Improper Use of a Shotgun, M/M, Rough Kissing, Shooting Range, Thighs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26794807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellygunnr/pseuds/bellygunnr
Summary: You pump the shotgun. You follow Freemind’s breathing and try not to think about how close his face is to yours. You stare down at the sights and definitely do not think about how warm his body is against yours, a sharp contrast to the cool morning air. You take special care to aim for center mass.This time, you squeeze the trigger. The SPAS-12 barks accordingly, and before that, a new bullet hole appears in the target’s chest.You whoop on instinct. Freemind laughs in your ear, shockingly genuine.“Good job,” he says. “Now, we should have three bullets left in the chamber. That’s enough to show you two other tricks with the SPAS-12.”
Relationships: HLVRAI Gordon/Freeman's Mind
Series: Free Men Plural [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931341
Comments: 8
Kudos: 99





	Special Tactical

You’re there to greet your others when they come home from their patrol. You know exactly how they’ll behave-- Freeman will approach you first, already unfastening his gloves, while Freemind stays behind, lurking beside the one operational HEV station. You’ll take Freeman’s arms in your hands and release the electric locks at the shoulders, letting the gauntlets unlatch with a hiss. Each time, you’ll notice a new nick or scar on his face, and the revelation will be quickly superseded by having to detach the chestplate.

This time, there’s the telltale pock marks of bullets across Freeman’s backside. You stare at them, dismayed.

“So you guys ran into trouble? What kind?” You ask, brows furrowed.

Freeman, predictably, doesn’t respond. He fixes you with an intense look that you can’t read.

“Combine bastards. Who else? Oh, yeah, a band of rebels went and shot us in the back. Get real, Three,” Freemind snaps from across the room. “Just get that suit off him so he can get to bed.”

“Huh? I’m sorry for being worried,” you say hotly, but you do start fiddling with the clasps. “And with that number bullshit again-- you’re not number one, man. We’re not-- there isn’t-- there’s not a ranking system at all, actually.”

The chestplate slides off with ease, revealing the gray underskin. It gleams with a faint sheen, a residual effect of the electric shielding. Touch it to metal and you’d both get hurt, when it was decaying like this. Before you can kneel down to address the complicated set of leg armor, Freeman steps out from under you.

“Woah, hey, where are you going? We’re still-- oh, you’re just… leaving, okay! We can do that. That’s fine,” you prattle, hands dropping to your sides. You watch him disappear. “Uh, what the hell is his deal, Freemind?”

The name is still weird as hell. You’re not sure who came up with it or how, but someone said it and it stuck. It’s better than Feetman at the very least, a moniker that still consistently brought up less than savory memories. But like with many things, you had little choice in the matter.

“How am I supposed to know? Hey, catch this. You’re in the barrel today with me,” Freemind says.

You’re about to ask what the hell he’s talking about when something heavy and black is thrown your way. Alarmed, you yelp before catching it in your arms, realizing belatedly that he’s thrown you a gun. A shotgun, to be exact.

“Don’t just throw these things! That’s dangerous,” you huff, cradling the firearm. “Wait, where are you going?”

“Shooting range,” he snaps. “For you, not for me. You suck at shooting.”

Freemind walks out of the room at an even stride and you, despite your better judgment, fall into place on his left side. You adjust your grip on the shotgun, noting that it’s empty.

“I’m not that bad at shooting,” you say defensively. “Like, I got that Combine soldier last week! From a mile away!”

White Forest is not quite yet bustling this early in the morning. You and Freemind make your way unimpeded through the complex. You compulsively apologize to anyone Freemind shoulders out of the way, wincing every time he does. Eventually, he slows to a stop, lingering just inside of the north exit bay.

You watch him make a series of motions with his hands-- twisting his left wrist, flicking his right fingers, the suit humming in response, before closing his right hand into a fist. In his left, a familiar red box appears. Shotgun shells. He tosses the box at you, which you catch in your free hand.

Then he rushes out the north exit, presumably to the shooting range that lurks just beyond the copse of newly-planted fruit trees. He doesn’t even say anything, so you trail after him. You don’t load the shotgun out of spite.

It’s nice outside. There’s a cool breeze blowing and the sun is just barely over the evergreens in the distance. Already, the sounds of old machinery starting up can be heard from the complex’s garage, low and guttural. The grass is still damp with morning dew that clings to your boots as you follow Freemind’s trampled path. He never was one for taking the beaten trails-- or maybe he just hated making things easy for the people around him.

Who knew. You certainly weren’t going to dwell longer on it, because the shooting range was in sight. It was more built-on than the last time you saw it-- genuine targets had been set up, as well as tables. A quick look shows you Freemind has taken up a target at the furthest end of the range. You linger at its table, watching him from a distance.

“You suck at shooting,” Freemind reiterates as he turns around to approach you. “Especially with that thing. Did you load it?”

“How do I-- How do I suck at shooting, man?” You demand, crossing your arms. “You can’t just say that and not tell me how.”

“Sure I can,” he says levelly. “Every time you fire, you throw your arms around like some kind of electrocuted ape. I hate it. Where the hell did you learn to shoot?”

You shrug. Your working memory starts at Black Mesa and ends in the present, with large holes all throughout the film reel. Your first gun was a glock off the body of a security guard. Your first target was--

There are fingers snapping in front of your face. You blink rapidly, ready to spit angrily.

“Don’t answer that. Load the gun and aim at the target. Try for the big red spot,” Freemind says. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

There is, indeed, a big red spot over the body of the target. You stare at the misshapen doll for a long moment.

“Oh, they dressed them up-- like Combine soldiers! That’s a little morbid, isn’t it?” You ramble as you start to load the shotgun. Eight shells, deftly filed, racked and loaded in one smooth motion.

At least you got that down, if the look Freemind gives you is any indicator. You don’t like the feeling that look inspires, either. You resolutely do not think about the fuzziness in your gut as you step up the line, shotgun held at the ready. It’s a heavy, comfortable weight in your hands. Better than the crawling anxiety that comes from being watched.

You fire. The shotgun jumps, and the target doesn’t even twitch because the slug’s gone wide.

“Oh, come on! I was aiming perfectly!” You shout, waving a hand around.

Suddenly, there’s a presence at your back. You stiffen unconsciously, goosebumps rippling out from where you feel breath on the back of your neck.

“You missed because, as I said, you throw your arms just after pulling the trigger. You also don’t brace for recoil properly, so it’s a damn wonder you haven’t hurt yourself yet,” Freemind hisses, voice close to your ear.

“What-- are you talking about? Why are you so close to me?” You say, voice pitching a little high. “Whoa, arms.”

Freemind snakes his arms underneath yours. His chin rests on your shoulder and you’re suddenly hyperaware of his physique. He’s your height, or maybe even taller, but his tightly corded muscle doesn’t beat you in terms of girth. The scent of alcohol hits your nostrils as he lets out a slow, measured breath, clearing concentrating on running his hands over yours. Then he trails his fingers-- long and tapered, but not smooth like nimble hands imply-- up your arms and to your biceps, pushing your limbs into position.

The stock now rests lower, wedged beneath your collarbone, just shy of your breast. You’re reluctant to admit that the grip feels more stable, but Freemind’s hands are still crawling all over your frame. Minute adjustments, the feeling of callouses pulling on your arm hair, sends shivers down your spine until he steps away entirely.

“Try that. Fire once,” Freemind says, his voice suddenly loud.

“Yes, sir,” you say reflexively, already hunkering down to aim.

Your face burns as you realize what you just said. You try not to scratch your lenses on the gun’s sights as you stare down them. There’s red in them, loud and tantalizing, but your breath is coming too fast. Your thoughts are whirling; the goosebumps still raised on your flesh act as burrs, snagging your brain until all you can think about is how warm Freemind’s hands on your arms and how his breath tickled your ear.

“Are you  _ hyperventilating? _ ” Freemind snaps.

You fire reflexively, thoughts shattered. The target jumps in reproach, a hole suddenly appearing in its abdomen.

“Jesus Christ,” Freemind says sourly. “I’d say you did a good job but itchy trigger fingers kill people. At least you hit it this time. Try again. Six bullets left, Three.”

“Not my fault you scared me,” you say petulantly, but do as he says. “And don’t call me Three.”

Your hands have become unfortunately sweaty on the grip. As you pump the shotgun, you have to clench the forestock tightly, lest the gun flies from your grasp. This time, your breathing does even out, though it’s still shaggy on the edges. Your muscles are starting to ache slightly from the weight of the gun, but you ignore it, determined to do well.

And you’re not even sure why.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” You say, squeezing the trigger, and unconsciously jerking your arms.

The target does nothing. Wide, again.

“Again with the arms! What the hell is your deal? You’re not doing that on purpose, are you?” Freemind suddenly explodes. “Give me this. No, give me  _ you _ . I have a feeling you have to do hands-on shit.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, man,” you whine, throwing your head back. “What do you mean my arms? What am I doing with my arms that you’re not?”

Freemind is rougher now. He pulls the gun back close to your body and drapes his arms over yours, full skin-to-skin, except where your prosthetic begins. You feel like you’re short-circuiting with how he clasps the top of your hands. His index finger curls over yours around the trigger housing. His other hand is tight on your elbow, keeping your arms in place.

“How do you not know what the hell you’re doing when you shoot?” Freemind growls. “Don’t know why I’m wasting time with you. Oh wait, I know. It’s because I’ll die if I don’t!”

Oh, Christ. There’s a knee wedged between your legs. You lean your weight on it, and then there is a chest pressed flush to your backside. Jesus fucking Christ. Was this much contact necessary for-- for-- Hazard Course Training?

“Breathe with me,” Freemind says lowly. His breath is on your ear, making your own hitch. “And aim.”

He doesn’t give you time to dwell on whatever Hazard Course Training is. His chest is rising and falling in predictable 1-2-3-4 common time, surprisingly grounding against whatever the hell else is happening around you.

“There you go. Steady as she goes, Feetman,” Freemind murmurs. “Ready?”

No. You feel like you’re barely able to focus, honestly, and him saying your pseudo-name nearly knocks you flat on your ass. But you nod, and stare down the sights, where yes, you are fixed onto the Combine doll and can--

Freemind punches down on your finger. The trigger depresses, the shotgun jumps, there’s muscle and a low growl between grit teeth that’s frustrated and a squeezing in your chest but the target judders encouragingly--

“I got it!” You shout, but can’t move for the vise-grip on your body. “Did you see that?”

“Did you not feel any difference at all?” Freemind snarls.

Any difference? The shotgun tilts down slightly as you think for all of a second. It felt-- stabler. There’s something inside that’s been knocked back into place. You scan your surroundings, blinking rapidly.

“Yeah! It-- it felt better, this time,” you say, still smiling. “Like… more stable.”

“Good,” Freemind sighs. “Once more, now.”

You pump the shotgun. You follow Freemind’s breathing and try not to think about how close his face is to yours. You stare down at the sights and definitely do not think about how warm his body is against yours, a sharp contrast to the cool morning air. You take special care to aim for center mass.

This time, you squeeze the trigger. The SPAS-12 barks accordingly, and before that, a new bullet hole appears in the target’s chest.

You whoop on instinct. Freemind laughs in your ear, shockingly genuine.

“Good job,” he says. “Now, we should have three bullets left in the chamber. That’s enough to show you two other tricks with the SPAS-12.”

Finally, his hold on your body loosens, but his hands don’t leave. He drags his palms, his fingers, across the expanse of your arms and over your chest where he gently presses down, getting a feel for the skin-fat-muscle that’s bunched up in your handling of the firearm. He’s feeling you up so shamelessly that all you can do is gape, because oh,

Freemind’s getting something out of this, too. And then you realize that this has been doing something for you for a  _ while. _

Your eyes track his hands as they grab the metal bar resting atop the shotgun. You’re lightly jostled as he pulls the bar free and twists the hook jutting out the end. He lifts your arm and you let him, because he’s confidence that makes you balk and you’re so curious where this is going.

“The SPAS-12 has a folding stock, as you can see,” Freemind starts, his voice suddenly giddy, “that extends its length considerably. And this hook can be fastened here--” he pauses, wrapping the hook beneath your bicep, “for one-armed handling.”

“Yeah? And why is that? Why’s it gotta-- have that option?” You ask, voice catching a little. “Seems a little unsafe.”

“Says the man with a prosthetic,” Freemind replies lightly. “Civilian models didn’t see this feature often. Lucky that we got all our weapons from Black Mesa, where they armed their guards like a paramilitary.”

“The shit they had in Black Mesa was kind of weird,” you agree. “Like the explosives and grenades.”

“Mmmm. France tried to put grenade launchers on their SPAS-12s,” Freemind hums.

He’s running his hands over your arms again. Gently, so gently, he’s adjusting your posture and grip, using that knee between your legs as a stabilizer. You hope he can’t feel the half-chub your sporting, but judging from the occasional nudge he gives you, he does.

But you can feel the boner pressing into your backside. So it’s even, you figure.

The shotgun sits lower when it’s extended like this. Freemind drops his hands from your arm to ghost them across your chest once more. He feels over your sides and squeezes your waist with a surprising gentleness.

“Now you’re just groping me,” you snort.

“Shut up and shoot,” Freemind replies.

You shut up and shoot. The shotgun barks and bucks against your shoulder, but this time, there is no static in the base of your neck or the errant urge to move your limbs, so the pain is well-worth it. Three tightly-clustered holes appear in the red mass of the dummy.

“Good job,” Freemind murmurs into your ear.

Before you can reply, or do anything, that knee is wedged deeper between your legs. You spread your feet apart instinctively, making a choked noise as Freemind rocks his leg unevenly against your clothed erection.

“You’re not bad when you actually shut up and listen,” he continues. “Your gun’s empty. What are you gonna do?”

“Uh,” you say eloquently. “Re-- reload it? Are we going to keep shooting?”

Freemind snorts. Instead of responding, he reaches over you and extricates the shotgun from your grasp, deftly folding the stock back up in one smooth motion. You twist around to watch him rack it and check the safeties, fascinated in the ease in which he handles it.

Then he flips it over, grabs your junk, and slams the shotgun firmly between your thighs. You half-gasp, half-groan at the rough friction, your thoughts slamming to a halt.

“Gun can’t be loaded for what I want to do with it,” Freemind says, grinning. “Which is fuck those delicious thighs of yours. Should feel nice through your jeans, right? They’re thick enough?”

“Is this-- is this something you do regularly?” You stammer, bewildered. “Are guns a horny thing for you?”

You will not dwell on how your cock twitched or a cold thrill went down your spine when Freemind shoved the gun between your legs. You won’t dwell on how it rubs back and forth as you stumble forward, clasping a heavy hand on his shoulder, or how he seems to know exactly what he’s doing with it.

“Guns are a tool and I will use them as I see fit,” Freemind says slowly. “And if that means a little self-pleasure here and there…”

Freemind seems content to support some of your weight as he works the shotgun. The metal is an intense foreign heat against your dick, but not unwelcome, as it sends tingles throughout your thighs. It rubs across the entire length of your cock at one point, making you groan.

When you try to stifle it, Freemind grabs your hand, crushing it in his grip.

“What, afraid of being noisy, for once?” Freemind snorts. “Let it all out, man. This is exciting for you.”

He leans in close. Your face is inches from his.

“I can tell.”

You grab his chin and kiss him. Whatever noise he makes, you make sure to swallow it by shoving your tongue roughly past his lips and against his teeth, lapping at them with a clumsy fervor. He stiffens beneath you for just a moment-- and then there’s a claw-tense hand in your hair.

Freemind jerks your head back with how roughly he yanks out your ponytail. You yelp into his mouth and he nips at your lip, making a feral noise that goes straight to your dick. The shotgun shifts between your thighs, a hard point of pressure.

He tastes of alcohol and old smoke. His teeth are sharp, grazing your tongue until you taste the faintest trace of iron. His nails are sharp, too, raking across your scalp as they are. You want to protest this, but every drag of his claws makes you moan, taken completely aback by the sensation. It’s good-- the pain, the roughness, it’s good.

“I think you like this,” Freemind growls into your mouth. His eye bores into yours, intense, slightly unhinged. “Is that right?”

“That doesn’t sound very confident,” you growl back, “Mr. Freemind.”

Freemind makes an ugly noise. The shotgun slides deep between your legs, grinding solidly against your cock. You roll your hips with it experimentally, just to follow the progression as Freemind starts to move it with purpose. His expression is dark, eye mean.

“I’m going to make you cum in your pants, Three,” Freemind snarls. “And I’ll make you suit up in your HEV with your filthy boxers. You’ll think of me for as long as you’re wearing them because I did that to you.”

The shotgun tilts up. You groan, rolling down hard against the body, fists bunching up in Freemind’s shirt. You whine as he grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls back, keeping your chin tilted in the air, throat exposed and warbling.

“And I’ll make sure no one will question who did this to you,” Freemind says, dangerously close to your ear.

His breath is wet against your neck. You squeak as he shoves his tongue behind your ear and licks a wet stripe down to the swell of your throat, where he bites down. You’re acutely aware that this is just above the threshold of the HEV collar, impossibly visible, and the thought has your hips moving erratically.

Freemind is there to brace you as you come, your mess making a growing stain in your jeans. He wraps you up, all broad muscle and sturdy body, wordlessly allowing you to go boneless against him.

The shotgun falls with a dead thud between your legs. You weakly kick it out from under you while clutching Freemind’s frame.

“Holy shit,” you mumble into his shoulder. “That was…”

“Don’t get loopy on me now,” Freeman says, but his voice isn’t harsh, nor is his expression. “You still have patrol with me today.”

You nod dimly while looking him over. A thought strikes you.

“Hey, what about your-- you know, your boner?”

“The suit will take care of it,” he says simply.

With that, Freemind gently stands you back on your feet. He walks wordlessly back to the complex.

**Author's Note:**

> the culmination of this series and its STILL gunplay.


End file.
